The Game is Still On
by lovetheblazer
Summary: Begins seconds after the end of 1.03  The Great Game . Sherlock has a plan, but what happens when the plan falls apart? John's doctoring skills are put to the test. Can John save Sherlock? Sherlock whump and h/c but no slash.
1. Chapter 1

This story begins seconds after the close of The Great Game (Episode 1.03) because I just couldn't stand leaving things on such a cliffhanger. There will be quite a bit of Sherlock whump in this chapter and of course some hurt/comfort goodness to come, but no slash just Sherlock/John friendship. The characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat, & Mark Gatiss and not me I'm afraid, but I quite enjoyed borrowing them for the story.

Sherlock looked into John's eyes. He hoped he could communicate as well silently as he could with words. Well, here goes nothing, he thought.

John stared into Sherlock's eyes. His incredibly expressive, always intense eyes. He knew that Sherlock was trying to tell him something, but what? It was clear that he had a plan for how they could both get out of here alive. Sherlock's eyes drifted to the right and suddenly John knew what to do.

All of the sudden there was an almighty splash. Moriarty jumped in surprise. The laser lights that were emanating from three high powered rifles hovered in the air, no longer finding their targets.

Moriarty shouted in frustration. "Well, don't just stand there you idiots, go after them. They are in the pool. Take them out with any means necessary."

Moriarty watched with morbid fascination as his muscled bodyguards jumped into the pool after Sherlock and John, their thousand dollar Armani suits immediately ruined by the chlorinated water. Moriarty had to admit, he hadn't seen that move coming. He was also impressed by Sherlock's ability to communicate wordlessly with John. Had John jumped even a second later than Sherlock, he'd be dead on the damp tiles, his chest full of lead from his bodyguards' sniper rifles. Timing truly was everything.

Sherlock sank beneath the cold water, his heavy coat pulling him down almost immediately. He forced his eyes open despite the sting of the chlorine and was relieved to see John a few feet away. Both of them had avoided certain death at the hands of several probably post-military snipers. But what should they do now?

John was relieved that he had got it right, that Sherlock had intended him to jump into the pool. His relief was short-lived as he saw several large muscled men leap into the pool and start swimming for him. What should they do now?

Sherlock started swimming as fast as his scrawny legs could carry him, his lungs burning from the lack of oxygen. He could feel the churning of the water from the bodyguards behind him and before he knew it, he felt a strong hand grasp his ankle, pulling him hard and wrenching his body from beneath the water's surface.

John continued swimming down and down towards the bottom of the pool some 10 meters below the surface. Before being called to service in Afghanistan, John had trained with the SBS and could hold his breath for over 3 minutes. He hoped that he could hold his breath long enough to avoid the bodyguards and allow Sherlock to think of another clever way to save their lives. At this point, Sherlock was his only hope.

Sherlock was yanked into a standing position by his hair. Here we go, he thought to himself. This a fight for my life and John's as well. Sherlock ignored the stinging pain in his scalp and grabbed the bodyguard by his suit lapels, jumping backwards to pull himself and the bodyguard beneath the water's surface.

Once under the water, Sherlock managed a strong right hook to the bodyguard's jaw. The bodyguard stood up, sputtering and again yanked Sherlock out of the water, this time pulling him up by his left arm, wrenching his shoulder as he did so. He swept Sherlock back, smashing his right temple into the concrete ledge at the edge of the pool.

Pain was all Sherlock could focus on. After only getting in one good punch, the bodyguard yanked him above the water, twisting his arm as he did so until Sherlock heard the sickening crunch that must accompany a broken bone. Before he could even properly register the agony in his left arm, the bodyguard pulled him up again, this time connecting his head with the stone ledge. Sherlock saw stars, temporarily losing both his sight and his hearing. However, Sherlock could still feel the throbbing pain within his skull and feel the warm gush of blood down his temple and cheek.

John reached the bottom of the pool, his arms and legs burning from the effort and his brain beginning to feel the oxygen starvation. He looked up and was relieved to see that the burly bodyguard had only made it half of the way down to the pool's bottom and looked nearly ready to pass out from lack of oxygen. John looked at his watch. He'd been under for a minute and a half and needed to come up with a plan, quickly. He glanced up again to see that the bodyguard had reversed and was desperately floundering toward the water's surface. In a split second, John decided that he would swim as far towards the other side of the pool as possible and hope to put some distance between himself and the bodyguard. As he prepared to push off the bottom of the pool, he saw Sherlock struggling with another beefy bodyguard at the shallow end of the pool. And wait, was that blood? He began to swim in earnest towards Sherlock.

Sherlock was sure he had never felt such pain in his life. I'm such an idiot, he thought to himself. A bullet to the head would have been quick, painless even. But instead I decide to fight so that I can die a slow, painful death. What was I thinking?

He was pulled back to focusing on the present by additional pain. While Sherlock was down, leaning heavily against the side of the pool and gripping his head with his one good arm, the bodyguard managed to connect with his ribs, delivering a swift kick to Sherlock's side with his steel-toed boots.

Sherlock slipped to his knees, the water reaching his chin in the shallow water. He tried unsuccessfully to draw a deep breath, the pain in his side exploding ten fold as he tried to breathe. Before he could catch his breath, the bodyguard pulled him up again, slamming the back of his head into the pool's edge. This time, mercifully, the blackness overtook him and Sherlock could no longer feel any pain.

Sorry to be so cruel and end things on another cliffhanger, but I wanted to have a bit of suspense leading into the next chapter. What do you think so far? I've got another few chapters planned, but I'm depending on reviews to tell me whether you like it enough for me to continue. I promise there will be quite a bit of hurt/comfort goodness in future chapters as well as some fun Sherlock/John dialogue. Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed so far! Please keep them coming.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

John surfaced, greedily pulling air into his burning lungs. He wiped the water from his eyes, only to take in a horrifying sight. With horror, he watched as Sherlock's body slowly slid below the surface of the water, while blood continued to stream from a wound to his forehead. His body was limp, his eyes closed. He was clearly unconscious or worse.

Without a thought to his own safety, John lunged towards Sherlock, meaning to pull him above the water so that he could breathe.

"Not so fast!" shouted the fat bodyguard who stood several feet from Sherlock's body. "Or are you ready to suffer the same fate as your friend?" he asked in a cruel mocking tone.

John turned, hoping to sneak past the fat bodyguard or perhaps to jump out of the pool and grab a weapon, but he was thwarted again.

"Where do you thinking you're going, Doctor?" asked the other bodyguard, still breathing hard from his swim across the pool. "Do you think we're going to let you go after you've ruined our suits and wasted half the night with us chasing you around? You aren't going anywhere!"

John realized that he was about to die and yet he felt no fear for himself. His hand did not shake with its usual tremor and his leg did not give out beneath him despite the exhaustion he felt throughout his body. His only fear right now was for Sherlock, who had been under the water for nearly a minute and who could not survive without oxygen for much longer. As the bodyguards circled in on him, their faces exposing a barely contained rage, John had only one thought. I'm so sorry, Sherlock, my friend.

Suddenly, the doors to the pool were flung open, revealing a CO19 team, led by Detective Inspector Lestrade. "Hands up, keep your hands where I can see them!" the CO19 members shouted with authority.

Moriarty was no fool. As soon as he heard the noise of the pool door being breached, he slipped out the door leading to the locker room to evade the authorities. He much preferred pulling the strings unseen while sending others to do his dirty work and so escape was his only option.

As the bodyguards heard the CO19 team's entry, they looked to Moriarty for guidance as how to proceed. Upon the realization that they were leaderless, without weapons, and surrounded, they quickly determined that immediate surrender was their only option.

John was at Sherlock's side in a flash. He immediately slipped his arms beneath Sherlock's armpits and towed his body to the surface. He leaned down to place his face next to Sherlock's, expecting to feel the reassuring breath against his cheek. He found none. Sherlock was not breathing. John shouted to Lestrade for help pulling Sherlock out of the water so that he could resuscitate him.

Sherlock heard a sound that seemed to be coming through a long tunnel. His head throbbed and his body felt cold and damp. He could tell that someone was speaking, but it seemed to require too much effort to translate the sounds into words. Couldn't everyone sod off? Was it too much to expect a bit of peace and quiet while he took a nap? The sounds were becoming much louder and more insistent. There was someone's voice quite close while another louder, booming voice shouted commands in the distance. There were new sensations too. The feel of a soft knit pressed to the side of his face. A hand, warm and reassuring that rubbed against his arm. Something about the quiet voice and the gentle hand immediately set Sherlock's mind at ease.

Sherlock was starting to understand that he was not on the couch in his flat taking a nap, as no one shouted or otherwise disturbed him while napping and certainly, no one touched him. But where was he? If only Sherlock could put together the pieces of this puzzle and determine the series of events that had led him to this location, he might be able to find the cause of the splitting pain in his head, arm, and side.

Once John removed Sherlock from the water, he immediately positioned him for CPR. He gave Sherlock several chest compressions before breathing a sigh of relief as Sherlock began to cough violently, a fountain of water spewing from his mouth and lungs. John turned Sherlock's head to the side and patted his back, encouraging him to cough out all of the water

"That's it, Sherlock. You're okay. Just take some slow deep breaths. You'll be alright." John directed. Sherlock continued to cough but did not fully regain consciousness.

John next turned his attention to the bleeding wound at Sherlock's temple. He needed to get the bleeding under control. He looked about the room, searching for something dry that he could use to bandage the wound until the paramedics arrived. He saw a dry towel discarded on the bleacher and decided it would do.

"Lestrade," called Doctor Watson. "I need you to grab me that towel."

John pushed back a wet lock of Sherlock's hair in an attempt to better visualize the head wound. He gratefully took the towel from Lestrade and began dabbing at the blood that continued to steadily stream from Sherlock's temple. Once he had wiped away some of the blood, John was able to see that the wound was quite deep and would inevitably need stitches or staples. Sherlock is not going to be thrilled about that, John thought morbidly to himself.

As John put firm pressure on Sherlock's wound, Sherlock began to stir, wrinkling his face in pain and moaning softly.

"Sherlock?" called John questioningly. "Sherlock, can you hear me? I need you to open your eyes. I know that your head is hurting a lot, but I really need you to try to look at me."

Slowly, Sherlock opened his eyes, groaning with pain as he did so, seemingly as a reaction to the bright fluorescent lights overhead. His eyes scanned the room, looking confused by what he saw.

"John?" he asked. "Where are we? What happened?"

"It's alright, Sherlock. Moriarty set a trap for us here. We jumped in the pool to avoid the bodyguards, but one of them beat you up pretty bad. You've been unconscious for about five minutes."

"Oh," was all Sherlock could mutter in response. He immediately tried to sit up, but was pushed back down by John.

"Sherlock, you need to lay still, okay? You're hurt pretty badly, and the paramedics need to check you over and make sure you are okay before we move you. The ambulance is on its way, so just hang in there for a few more minutes. Are you hurting anywhere besides your head?"

Sherlock ignored John's last question since he knew that telling John that he suspected he had broken his arm and some ribs would not help convince John that he was okay.

"John, I'm fine. I'm not going to the hospital. I was only out for a few minutes and I'm feeling much better now. I just want to go home and lie down," said Sherlock insistently.

Before John could respond, Mycroft walked through the doors to Sherlock and John and immediately kneeled down next to them. John watched as Mycroft scanned Sherlock's body and took in his injuries.

John addressed Mycroft, saying "Mycroft, Sherlock lost consciousness after hitting his head. He likely has a concussion and is going to need stitches for a big gash in his forehead, but he's refusing to go to the hospital. Can you help us out here?"

Mycroft slowly shook his head. "Look, the public hospitals in London are a joke. He won't get the care he needs there. You are a wonderful doctor. He'd be better off at home with you taking care of him."

John sighed in frustration. "I don't think you are getting the seriousness of the situation. Even if I agreed to take care of Sherlock at home, he's still going to need a whole battery of tests like x-rays, CT scans, and MRIs. How am I going to take care of him if I don't have the proper equipment?"

Mycroft waved his hand dismissively. "I can get you any medical supplies you need within the hour. Just make a list."

John decided it was pointless to argue the issue further since both Sherlock and Mycroft had clearly made up their minds. John nodded his head in agreement and then looked down at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were closed with his face contorted in pain. John also noted that his breathing seemed more shallow than it had a few minutes ago. It was clear that he needed medical treatment quickly.

"Alright, we will try it at home first to see how it goes. But if Sherlock seems to be getting worse or if the tests show any problems that need surgery, you need to promise me that you'll go to the hospital, deal?"

"Deal," said Sherlock. "Now can we get out of here? This pool room smells like mildew and I'm ready to get out of these wet clothes."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOo

I know that Sherlock not going to the hospital may require a little suspension of belief but to me, it seems in character for him to refuse going to the hospital. I can also see Mycroft setting up a makeshift hospital in their flat. The location will become important for the chapters to come and will also give us a chance to see what John was like as an Army Doctor in the field. Please review and tell me what you liked or didn't like.


End file.
